


Your Body (Is My Playground)

by Cerberusia



Series: Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Comeplay, M/M, Marking, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At thirty-plus, Peter is far too old to be hanging around teenagers' boozy parties. But he has his reasons. Like this: the Sheriff's son, all but passed out in a back bedroom...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Body (Is My Playground)

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme prompt (which I have now lost the link for, of course) _Peter Hale is that slightly sketchy guy who is just a bit too old to be hanging out around high school kids/parties but since he buys them booze no one really complains about it._  
>  While at one of those parties Peter comes across a ridiculously wasted Stiles in one of the back bedrooms, where he was stashed by Scott in hopes of keeping Stiles out of trouble. Peter has had his eye on the Sheriff's son for a while and decides to indulge himself.

At thirty-plus, Peter is far too old to be hanging around teenagers' boozy parties. But he's the one buying the booze, and he's good company to boot, so no-one complains. He gets to be the adult they can come to if anything's wrong, which mainly involves breaking up fights and holding kids' hair back as they cry and/or vomit. He likes it, likes being around teenagers in all their immaturity, attracted by the bright burn of their youth and energy. He likes playing the kind, wise (but still cool) uncle. And of course, as compensation for the vomiting, there are certain _perks_ on occasion.

Like this: the Sheriff's son, all but passed out in a back bedroom, probably stashed there by a friend in the hope of keeping him out of trouble. Not a bad plan, as long as no horny teenagers come searching for somewhere a little more private to grind against each other ineptly. Or against Stiles himself - really, Peter's doing him a favour by closing the door and coming to sit by him on the bed. The boy clearly shouldn't be left unattended, which means it's up to Peter, as the responsible one, to stay with him. For as long as it takes.

Stiles doesn't even stir as Peter's weight makes the bed dip. The alcohol has lent a distinct flush to his cheeks, and the way he's sprawled on his back with his legs splayed wide makes him look... _appetizing_. And Peter is always hungry. He leans over and lays his fingers on the boy's throat, over his pulse - slightly decreased due to the alcohol consumption, but his hands are still warm, so he's not in danger. From the alcohol, at least.

Slowly, Peter rucks up Stiles' t-shirt under his arms, and takes a moment to lay his hand over first his stomach, then his chest, hand spanning the breadth betwen his nipples; he feels the steady rise and fall like a doctor. There's a mole an inch or so from his left nipple, and Peter bends to kiss it. Then he traces from Stiles' navel down to the waist of his jeans, following the line of hair. He hooks two fingers inside the jeans and underwear beneath them, feeling the heat of Stiles' skin, the coarseness of his pubic hair. He briefly ducks his head to smell Stiles' neck, breathing in sweat and alcohol. Ah, _teenagers_.

He undoes the boy's jeans carefully, listening intently for any movement outside the door. Nothing, so he relishes the sound of the zipper going down, and reaches inside Stiles' underwear to gently pull out his cock. He's not hard - unsurprisingly - but Peter can fix that. Even with enough alcohol in his system to render him unconscious, Stiles is still a teenager, with a teenager's libido. And Peter knows _just_ what to do with teenagers.

Stiles' soft cock fits perfectly in his mouth. Peter moans, just a little - it's been so _long_ since he's let himself have this, too wary of being caught. He savours the salty taste and Stiles, unresisting, unmoving, beneath him. He presses his thumb over the vein in Stiles' abdomen, feeling it pulse as he sucks his rapidly hardening cock. Stiles shifts a little, but heartbeat stays steady, still deep in his alcohol-induced stupor.

Peter wants to fuck him. He wants it badly: to open Stiles up with his fingers and tongue and cock, watch his face contort. He could make Stiles enjoy it, even if he didn't want to. And Peter would enjoy it _very_ much.

But he daren't - too hard to hide the evidence of that sort of thing, and Peter can't afford to take any risks. So he keeps sucking the boy's cock instead, pressing his tongue flat along the vein and into the sensitive spot just underneath the head. Stiles dribbles some precome into his mouth as a reward, and his thighs flex a little. Peter feels the hot rush of power in his belly.

He'd been worried about the alcohol possibly inhibiting Stiles' ability to come, but he needn't have - it takes a little longer than it otherwise might for a previously-untouched teenage boy, but he feels Stiles getting restless under him until at last he spurts down Peter's throat, legs jerking and breathing quick. Peter swallows, but doesn't move until Stiles' pulse slows again and he drifts back into sleep, spent cock still cradled tenderly in Peter's mouth.

Peter pulls off with a pang of regret, levers himself to his hands and knees, and takes a moment to look at Stiles spread out like this, sex-flush still fading from his throat, soft pink cock laid on his thigh. Then he pulls out his own cock and starts to jerk himself off with quick, rough strokes, rocking his hips forward into his fist, making the bedsprings squeak a little: the only sound in the room besides his increasingly-harsh breathing. He keeps his eyes fixed on Stiles' mouth as he comes, panting, all over the boy's bare stomach.

Again, he stops to look at the picture Stiles makes with the addition of Peter's come marking him. He wants to take a photo, but it's too risky. But...Peter bites his lip, then puts his cock away and gets out his phone. He rearranges Stiles a little, pushing his jeans down to midthigh, taking the opportunity to grab his ass and squeeze, just because, then brings up the camera and takes three photos: one of his face and chest, one of his cock and belly spattered with Peter's come, and one of the whole thing: Stiles, spread out like a feast. He'll have to do something creative to hide the pictures from his various nieces and nephews who regularly borrow his phone, but it's worth it.

He licks his come off Stiles regretfully: it's so _tempting_ to leave him like this, marked with Peter's come, but that _is_ too risky. So he cleans Stiles up with his tongue, gets him dressed again, and leaves with a gentle caress to his face. He wishes for one irrational moment that Stiles would open his eyes - Peter loves his eyes, big and dark and surrounded by thick lashes and so objectively beautiful that it's a wonder no-one else seems to have noticed - and smile, but that's sentimental foolishness that he doesn't have time for. Peter is thirty-five and Stiles is sixteen. That's not how this works.

He checks that there's no-one around to see him leave, and closes the door softly behind him. He listens to Stiles' steady heartbeat all the way down the corridor.


End file.
